by Chris Mooney
During her drive, she had thought about using the house across the street. The roof would offer the best tactical advantage. First problem: how to access it. She couldn't rely on finding something like a ladder in the garage, and searching for one would eat up too much time. Using one might arouse suspicions. She couldn't use a flashlight either: someone might see it. And now that she had viewed the condition of the house, she knew she couldn't stumble around dark rooms, kicking and tripping over debris — making all sorts of sounds as she searched for a way to access the roof.
The second, and more important, problem was her choice of weapon. The MK handgun tucked in her shoulder holster was an excellent close-quarters combat weapon, but it lacked the long-distance accuracy of a scoped sniper rifle. So she had scratched the roof. And the trees: a good watching point, but, again, the problem was a matter of shooting accuracy. Plus, she'd have to climb high to find decent cover. If they spotted her, she'd be a sitting duck. With no room for her to manoeuvre, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
That left ground cover, either a spot in the woods or one of the three dumpsters set up near the blast site, which was where she wanted to draw the occupants of the BMW. They might decide to come in for a closer look. They might decide to pounce. Either way, she'd be ready.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and when she reached the edge of the crater, she looked down and found a basement of broken walls half buried by debris and dirt. She removed the tracking device from her pocket and tossed it into the wide hole, hearing a plink as it bounced off a piece of metal.
Now she had to find a dumpster.
Three here, but the one parked at the end of the driveway fifty feet or so away from the crater offered a good view of both the blast site and the woods. She jogged to the side, grabbed the edge and hopped up on the dumpster's small ledge. Looking inside, she found it almost full. Lots of charred and splintered wood. Burned furniture and clothes. Perfect.
She looped the tactical belt around her shoulder. The straps for the night-vision goggles were sewn into a black wool cap. She put the cap on, leaving the goggles off her eyes for the moment, then unzipped her jacket and climbed into the dumpster. She scooped up all the dark-coloured clothing she could find, then discarded them when she hit the jackpot: a set of burned sheets and a comforter.
Wood and whatever else was beneath her palms and knees creaked and moaned as she crawled to the edge of the dumpster. Working quickly and methodically, she cleared some of the debris away, mostly wood, until she had enough room to lie down. She stopped working and examined the space. Good enough. She transferred the tactical belt to a spot where it could be accessed easily. From her jacket pocket she removed a silencer and placed it, along with her handgun, on the lip of the dumpster. Darby rolled sideways into the small space and covered herself with the bedding, making sure she had enough of the comforter left to wrap around her head. Now the final part: transferring the splintered and shattered boards and other assorted debris on top of her body.
Covered, she did a slow roll on to her stomach and kept her weight propped up on her forearms. Grabbed the MK, threaded the silencer and then wrapped the burned edge of the smoke-smelling comforter around her head. She put all of her weight down on her stomach. A few hard edges poked her legs, and her ribs, still in the process of healing, groaned in protest. Discomfort but not pain; she would manage.
The split and shattered ends sticking up from the edge added additional cover. She flipped the night-vision goggles down on her eyes. The ambient green light parted the darkness. She could see the street and every inch of the surrounding woods. She reached for the handgun, gripped it in her hand and waited.
The cold air remained silent except for the occasional stirring of the tree branches from the wind. Quiet, remote and dark, this place was the perfect spot for them to make a run at her. If they didn't do it tonight, they would sometime soon. The sole survivor, they believed she had seen and heard too much — that could be the only reason why they were following her.
She thought about numbers. The BMW driver would have brought along help. She needed only one alive; figure out who the leader was, then make a plan to take down the others as fast as possible. Take the survivor and make him talk about Mark Rizzo.
It was also possible she'd be forced to put them all down, as a matter of survival. Maybe take them all out at once, she thought. More bodies, more evidence, more avenues to explore.
The wind stirred the trees again. Something shattered and fell.
The sound came from across the street.
She couldn't turn and see the house. Had the wind caused that?
She waited and heard nothing.
Had to be the wind, she thought, and went back to waiting.
Sometime later, in the distance, she heard the crawl of car tyres crunching against the road. The sound came from the east, somewhere past the woods.
Using her thumb, she clicked off the safety.
The tyres stopped moving. She could make out the sound of an idling engine. A moment later, it stopped.
Darby waited, listening and watching.
Here they come.
31
Darby counted three men — at least she assumed they were men, given their height and clothing — standing stock still, like mannequins, on the northern edge of the woods. The threesome stared into the woods as if waiting for something to happen.
Or waiting for the word to move ahead, she thought.
Had they already sent someone in as a spotter? Maybe a small group who were making their way to her right now?
Hidden underneath the blanket and debris, Darby slowly moved her head to the right, past the group, to do a visual sweep of the woods and the road. She moved her head as far as she could.
No other people in the woods or on the road, and she couldn't see any vehicles. The trio could have been dropped off and the vehicles parked somewhere east or south of the dumpster. No way to check unless she stood up.
Now a slow turn back to the threesome.
Still standing, still waiting.
She moved her head to the left, doing a slow, methodical visual sweep of the woods while keeping track of the road. It curved around the woods and then turned on to the main street. The only thing she saw was her bike parked a few feet beyond the fluttering yellow strips of police tape. If a spotter or spotters had been sent into the woods, they were well hidden. She couldn't see or hear them.
Back to the threesome. No change.
What the hell are they waiting for?
Darby took in a slow, deep breath, smelling the charred wood as her left hand reached up and grabbed the lens control for the monocular tube. She turned the knob slowly, zooming in on the tall person standing in front of the others. Boots, dark trousers and a dark hooded sweatshirt.
She zoomed on the face next, waited for the lens to focus.
The person's face — his true face — was covered behind the same stitched mask of leathery flesh she had seen on Charlie Rizzo. The lip of the sweatshirt's hood covered part of the forehead but not the eyes. They seemed to be staring directly at her, and she could see his lips moving. Speaking.
Darby adjusted the lens to see this person's two companions.
They hadn't moved. They stood slightly behind him, staring and waiting. Looking back to the face, Darby saw, hovering near his right cheek, what looked like the microphone end of an earpiece.
Probably one of those wireless headsets that allow the person to speak over a cell phone, she thought. You used it to keep your hands free, to keep your attention focused on a task. Is he listening to someone? Or is he the one giving orders? If he was giving orders, then some -
Blurred movement flashed in front of the lens.
Someone had stepped into her line of vision.
Darby didn't move, remained absolutely still.
The lens control was still pinched between her fingers. She turned it slowly, not making a sound, and zoomed back to the blast
site to get a closer look at who or what had dashed in front of her.
A bald man with a severely scarred head was crouched on the ground, his toes hugging the edge of the crater as he looked down into the dirt where she'd thrown the tracking device. Clutched in the deformed fingers of one hand and held high in the air was an odd-shaped billy club.
A spring clicked free and the club turned into a telescopic baton with metal plates crackling with electricity.
A telescopic stun baton. They hadn't come here to kill her. They wanted to capture her. Alive.
The man, realizing she wasn't inside the crater, looked up and around the area. His face had also been horribly scarred, possibly from a burn; the thick, twisted dark meat along one cheek had, after it healed, contracted and pulled back the lips into a permanent sneer, exposing crooked and blackened teeth. His right eye darted back and forth, but the left, a sightless white orb, didn't move.
Ghoul. That was the first word that flashed through her mind. A ghoul dressed in modern clothing — dark baggy sweatpants and a half-zipped sweatshirt that revealed a scarred chest with skin stretched tightly across knobs of deformed bone, like Charlie Rizzo's. She saw the skin stretching across the ribs as the ghoul breathed, wheezing plumes of air that evaporated in the cold night.
The ghoul — she didn't know what else to call it — jumped into the crater as scattering sounds came from the woods. She looked towards the northern edge of the woods and saw the trio still standing there, watching and waiting.
They sent this thing in to knock me out and then drag me away.
To where? The same place where Mark Rizzo was being held?
Smashing sounds and then a howl of pain roared from inside the basement.
Two more figures had moved to the edge of the crater.
Like the ghoul rooting around in the scorched dirt, this bone-thin pair were dressed in ratty clothing and had shaved heads and scars. They both held telescopic stun batons. One of the pair was crouched low to the ground, looking around the woods and street like a hunter.
Not looking, she thought. Guarding. The other stood ramrod straight, its back facing her. She could see the tattoo on its neck: Et in Arcadia ego. Even in Arcadia, Death exists.
The thing turned, sniffing the air in front of her.
Darby clutched the MK23. If this thing came at her — if it discovered her — she'd put it down with a headshot, then turn to the other two in the crater before dealing with -
Snapping sounds and then she saw the ghoul scurrying up from the basement. The thing's face was darkened by soot and dirt, and she saw a bright red gash on the side of its head. Its mouth opened as it looked up to the singed tree branches.
'Ka-kah! Ka-kah!'
Silence. The three ghouls had turned stock still, waiting.
Incredibly, she saw the end of a small, wireless earpiece protruding from the ear canal of the one standing closest to her.
Take them down, she thought. Take them down now.
The three ghouls scattered into the woods, running like wild dogs, snapping twigs and whisking past branches as they headed towards the northern end, where the other three stood waiting.
In the distance she heard a car starting. Next came the sound of a climbing car engine. It grew louder and then she saw a vehicle pull on to the road — a dark van. It came to a sharp stop and the doors slid open, then the deformed things rushed inside.
Two of the watchers from the woods followed, but not the tall one. He stayed where he was, looking, Darby thought, straight at her.
32
Darby saw him coming her way. Saw him take big, wide steps and turn his head in the direction of her bike, then look back at her.
He knows I'm hiding here in the dumpster, she thought.
The man broke into a jog. Why is he coming in here alone? Why didn't he bring along the other freaks?
He unzipped his sweatshirt. He reached inside and took out a handgun.
She measured the distance. Too far away to get off a clean shot. Too many trees in the way. She'd have to wait until he got closer. A few more steps and he'd be standing near the clearing. If he didn't stand down, she'd have to put him down with a shot to the thigh, maybe go for the upper-right section of his chest, away from his heart.
She looked down the MK's target sight as a bright, narrow beam of light appeared and started to move near the edge of the crater — a tactical light mounted underneath the barrel of a 9mm.
Glass shattered in the distance.
Darby didn't move or react, her gaze cutting to the direction of the sound. It had come from somewhere to her left. What was there? The other house. The one where the sniper had set up that night, the one that had been damaged by the explosion.
The man had heard it too. He stopped and was staring in the same direction. Staring and maybe wondering if the wind blowing through the big blast holes in the house had knocked something off a wall or table. Wondering, maybe, if she had brought someone with her. If he had been set up.
He shut off his tactical light. Turned back to the waiting van, took a step forward, then stopped again and glanced over his shoulder, looking back at her. Stared like he was about to come back.
No. He had decided to go back to the van. She watched him running through the woods, then across the street, and he entered the van's side door, which slammed shut behind him. The cool night air filled with the sound of tyres squealing, the rubber biting against the road as the van sped away, the sound growing dimmer until it died.
Darby lay there, heart drumming hard against her aching ribs, and she breathed in soot and ashes and the stench of charred wood. Thinking: What in God's name did I just see?
Ghouls, she thought. Bogeymen. Creatures that lived underneath the ground and came out only at night. Monsters that had come to capture her. At the last moment the wind had saved her. The wind blowing through the trees right now, shaking the branches and leaves, had knocked something fragile off a wall or worktop in the neighbouring house and it had shattered against the floor and scared off the lead bogeyman.
Had they really left? Or had they parked somewhere to wait? To watch the computer tracking her listening devices to see where she was going to go next? Maybe try and make another run at her?
Darby checked her watch. A few minutes past midnight. The Witching Hour. How appropriate.
She decided to wait for a bit to see if they'd come back. She used the time to plan.
She couldn't go back to her condo. It was bugged, for one, and it was possible these people she'd just seen had at least one person watching her building, waiting for her to return. The FBI too. The men she'd seen parked at the end of her street — she felt pretty sure they were feds. She needed a place to stay. That left her with only one option: a hotel.
Problem: hotels asked for IDs and a credit card. She didn't want that information in their computer systems. Someone with access to the right database could track her credit card. She needed to find a place that would allow her to register under an alias.
Her thoughts ran to Coop. He had a friend who was a manager for a Boston timeshare in McKinley Square called the Custom House. Sean Something. Grew up in Charlestown with Coop at a time when the small town was full of Irish gangsters and shady cops. They had all watched out for each other and she felt sure this guy Sean would watch out for her if she asked, bend the rules and allow her to register under an alias.
She also needed someone who could help her delve deeper into the significance of the Latin phrase tattooed on these creatures' necks. Harvard had a Divinity School. Latin and religious scholars. She made a mental note and checked the time. Quarter to one. Daylight would come in another four hours.
Darby turned her attention back to the woods, back to listening and watching.
Another hour had passed, and she had heard and seen nothing.
She decided to get moving.
Standing, pieces of wood and other bits of debris banged and clattered softly as they fell back into the dumps
ter. She pulled off the comforter and sheets, brushed off her jacket and, tactical belt in hand, hopped off and jogged back to her bike. She hung the belt across the seat and then went to the back to root around inside the small trunk.
She didn't have an evidence bag back there, but she did have a makeshift First-Aid kit with a small Band-Aid box. She took it with her on her way back to the crater.
Turning on her flashlight, she slowly ran the beam across the debris.
There. A smear of fresh blood on one of the walls. The ghoulish thing had cut its head and left blood.
Carefully she made her way down. She collected the blood sample using a piece of gauze and tucked it inside the box.
Climbing back out with her prize, Darby reminded herself to remove the Velcro-mounted tracking device they'd stuck on her bike before she drove away.
33
Considering that she was going to a place that housed life-threatening bacteria and viruses, Darby expected to find a huge building cordoned off by security gates, maybe armed guards roaming the perimeter or posted near or just behind the front doors. But the BU Biomedical Lab had been designed so it would blend in with the rest of the South End neighbourhood. Made entirely of brick, it sat on a corner of Albany, just another bland, non-descript building among the other industrial-type complexes that ran printing presses and offered legal services. Two exceptions: no sign or lettering advertising what the building was; and no windows on either the ground or first floors. Plenty of windows on floors two through six, some of them lit.
The stretches of kerb in the front and to the right of the building were bare of vehicles. Could be the hour; it was twenty minutes shy of 5:00 a.m., the sky beginning to break with a milky-grey, pre-dawn gloom. Most of Albany had plenty of available parking spaces. Darby drove to the front, flipped up the helmet's visor and found posted signs that prohibited parking. Violators would be immediately asked to move or risk being arrested. To enforce the threat, a pair of highly visible security cameras had been mounted above the front doors. One swept the street in front while the other watched the corner.